


3 am yoga

by batofgoodintent (crownedcrusader)



Series: batbro angst (alt: sorry dickie g) [2]
Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sibling Bonding, sleep-deprivation, tim and dick do yoga together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 02:52:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11934792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcrusader/pseuds/batofgoodintent
Summary: A sleep-deprived Tim learns how to wear himself out Grayson-style.At least, he tries. He's pretty sure only Graysons are capable of bending into pretzels to wind down. But it's worth a shot.





	3 am yoga

**Author's Note:**

  * For [momoejaku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/momoejaku/gifts).



> also posted on tumblr (timdrakeothy) -- this was originally a gift for komadoriwonder, but it's been up on tumblr for a while, lol

Three in the morning wasn’t actually all that late—not by Bat standards, anyways.

But because there had been a tough mission earlier, Dick and Tim had returned to the cave at a little past midnight. Yet, despite being ordered to rest up—“Straight to bed, young masters, both of you—and no dawdling. You each possess a sleep debt that no doubt requires your utmost attention.”—Tim couldn’t find it in him to sleep.

But, he supposed a lungful of fear gas tended to do that.

Evidently, whether one had been working for nine months (Tim) or for nine years (Dick)—it was still possible to be unnerved in the field. That had been proven true that night, as Nightwing and Robin had taken to the streets and worked on civilian-safety while Batman handled Crane directly.

As usual, the mission had gone perfectly, right up until it all went to hell.

While Scarecrow eventually ended up behind bars, Dick, Tim, and half the people they’d been rescuing ended up under the influence of fear gas. It was only by luck that the bats had enough of the antidote to disperse to the crowd and themselves. But even with the antidote, the strain seemed stronger than usual—limiting the antidote to only stop the hallucinations and slow the heart-rate until it was out of the danger zone.

It had worked out fine, eventually. It always did. Bruce came back, helped escort the affected civilians to the hospital, and when all was said and done, he pulled Dick and Tim back to the Batmobile, and then drove them back to the cave.

But while Dick had simply nursed an elevated heart-rate and shaking hands, Tim didn’t feel much further from an anxiety attack than he’d been upon first breathing it in.

No matter how much of the antidote Bruce attempted to give Tim, the effects lingered—and Tim realized with gut-wrenching certainty that there was nothing he could do but wait out the fear toxin.

No matter how he waited, though, the anxiety, stress, and the paranoia lingered, preying on his worst fears and insecurities.

Even though Tim had followed orders to the letter, and even though no civilians had been hurt, and even though he’d done everything that he could have possibly done right—

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d made a mistake. And that, that was the fear gas talking. He knew that. He had evidence for that, and Bruce’s own brand of reassurance—a hesitant, gruff, “Head to the showers,” instead of a lecture. Tim had done  _well_.

But the worries lingered.

And, the more he considered them, the more he realized some of them had the promise of a factual basis. And oh, he didn’t want to get into that—didn’t want to give these fears a name, didn’t want to think about the promise of them being  _real_.

No matter how Tim tried to tell himself not to think about it, once they took root, he couldn’t get the thoughts out of his head.

Like the fact that he wasn’t able to shake this fear gas half as easily as Dick could.

It wasn’t like he could help his reaction, of course. Tim was smaller than Dick, and prior to that night, he’d never been exposed to fear gas. But rationality meant little to the toxin. Instead, Tim’s burgeoning confidence as rattled right to its core. And with his usual defenses down, all his worst insecurities creeped up—worries about being too new on the job to do well, about not having what it took to keep Robin, about whether or not he was good enough to keep Batman from the edge.

That last one was probably the one that worried him most.

And  _yes_ , Bruce had been doing better. He was no longer at risk of getting himself killed from rushing into fights without a plan or a prayer. The fact that Bruce was still alive meant Tim was doing his job.

Er, jobs.

Everything from helping him with cases, to helping him not surrender to that feeling of hopelessness. But even so, Tim couldn’t help but wonder if he was doing  _enough_. Worse than that, he didn’t know if it was even  _him_  that was doing the work, or if Bruce had finally managed to make his way past the self-destructive part his grief.

The fear toxin told him it was the latter.

After all, if Tim couldn’t even get his breathing under control three hours after a fear gas attack, then maybe he just wasn’t cut out to be Robin. Bruce didn’t need him. Dick didn’t need him. The pair of them would be happier on their own, without someone to taint the Robin legacy by wearing a dead boy’s old title.

But with that thought came the understanding that he was spiraling.

Despite everything going wrong in his head that night, Tim knew better than to let his thoughts snowball from there. Because past that was danger territory—and he couldn’t afford that. Not tonight.

And so, despite Alfred’s warnings that he was to rest, and stay in bed until morning, Tim found himself slipping out of the guest room.

The manor was just as cold, and dark as he’d expected. Worse than that, with the influence of fear gas, the shadows played tricks on his eyes. But, Tim did his best to ignore the toxin still in his system, and he pressed on through the manor. A few times, a shadow seemed to jump out at him, and he had to take a break for a few minutes, but he always kept forward eventually. He couldn’t let terror overwhelm him in his boss’s home. It’d be too embarrassing to live down if anyone found him like that.

And so, despite his few panic attacks and rudimentary knowledge of Wayne Manor, Tim found the kitchen after only fifteen minutes of searching.

Letting out a slow sigh of relief at the white-tiled glory of it, he blocked out the shadows around the kitchen and reminded himself that anything that moved wasn’t real. Instead, he focused on the things that were real. Like the cold tile below his feet, and the hum of the refrigerator, and the faint glow shining in from the window.

It was still a little ominous, but for now, it’d do.

Unfortunately, Tim had  _just_  managed to pour himself a glass of tap water before he heard a voice behind him.

“Couldn’t sleep, huh?”

And that, that just about made Tim drop the glass. It was hard enough holding it with his shaking palms, and getting spooked was hardly helping his cause. But before he could drop it (or slosh out more than half the water), a warm hands reached forward and steadied Tim’s hold. Or, attempted to steady them. Tim had the distinct impression that the other hands were shaking a little, too, but that might have been a figment of his imagination.

“Sorry,” the voice—Dick?— said, a little softer this time. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Instead of the scream on the edge of his throat, Tim managed a choked laugh. When he was finally feeling less hysterical, he took a deep breath, stepping away from the water on the floor. He set the glass on the counter, bracing his palms against the marble countertops, and tried to regulate his breathing from there. “Yeah, well,” he said, closing his eyes. “…You wouldn’t be the first, tonight.”

When he opened his eyes, Dick was looking down at him, expression curious, a fond smile playing on his lips. “The first lungful of fear gas is always the worst,” he said. Tim thought it was meant to be comforting, but instead, embarrassment pinked his cheeks.

Of course it was that obvious, he thought, looking down at the water he’d spilled. His hands pressed tighter against the countertop, trying in vain to stop his shaking palms.

After a few minutes’ silence, Dick took a step closer. “C’mere,” he said, coaxing Tim to look back up at him. Tim was aware, suddenly, that he’d been silent for over two minutes—obviously worrisome, to anyone just standing there and waiting. He couldn’t really blame Dick for worrying. “Lemme show you something.”

Tim felt Dick’s hand on his shoulder, giving a brief squeeze before easing him away from the counter. Just as Tim had suspected, the hand was a little jittery, though made a noble effort to disguise itself as just ‘active.’ He was tempted to tell Dick to stop tapping his thumb and fingertips against his shoulder, but he knew Dick couldn’t help it any more than he could. And besides that, Tim was too tired to protest. Instead, he simply followed. “Where?” he asked, keeping close enough that Dick didn’t have to remove the warm patch on his shoulder. (Annoyingly jittery as it was, it was still  _something_.)

“My room,” he said. “I’ve got some yoga mats spread out. Normally I’d head down to the gym, but it’s kinda chilly, and…” He lifted his free hand, rubbing the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I, uh, kind of wanted to stick around the more habitated parts of the Manor.”

For the first time, it occurred to Tim that Dick was still awake three hours after the mission, too.

“You can’t sleep, either?”

“After a mission like that? Not a chance,” Dick admitted. “Or at least not with my pride intact. I could take some sleeping pills and knock out, but I always end up having awful dreams if I go to sleep after a lungful of fear gas. If I don’t calm myself down first, it’s always a rough night.”

Tim committed the information to memory, then considered the other tidbits Dick had given him. “So, …yoga?”

“Yoga.” Dick quirked a smile—or, an attempt at one. It looked a little more like a grimace than Dick’s usual. “Been trying to wind down for the last three hours. Nothing’s really worked too well. I think Scarecrow used an altered strain tonight or something—no hallucinations slipped through the antidote, but it’s been a while since it wrecked me this bad.”

“It used to be worse?”

“ _Much_. We didn’t used to have the antidote, for one, and, well…” He stared forward for a moment, mouth opening as if to explain, before he abruptly closed it and shook his head. “Point is, after the first few times, you get used to it. Sort of. I’m not the best example of it right now, so take it with a grain of salt.”

Tim considered the still-shaky hands, comparing it to his own symptoms. He’d felt about ready to pass out earlier just from getting out of bed and walking the manor alone. He was pretty sure Dick wasn’t faring quite as badly, but…

He also knew that Dick Grayson was an expert at stepping up when people needed him.

Perhaps he’d refused to take Robin back when Tim first asked, but Tim knew now that it hadn’t been fair to ask it of him. And after he’d become Robin, Dick had come around the Manor plenty, taking him under his wing in a way he assumed Dick had done with Jason.

(Though, he’d yet to actually ask if Dick and Jason were ever close. He hadn’t seen Nightwing and Robin work together much, so maybe his conclusion was colored with wishful thinking.)

“I’m watching my salt intake,” Tim said. Seeing Dick’s confused-amused smile, he added, “I’m sure it used to be worse, though, yeah. I’m glad you guys managed to work the kinks out for the most part—but there’s not much you can do for a new formula.”

Dick’s smile turned a little fonder, and though Tim would never understand the appeal, he ruffled Tim’s hair. (Maybe it said something for Tim’s need for contact that he didn’t pull away—but that was an issue for another time.) “I like the way you think, Timmy.”

Before Tim could protest the nickname, Dick got to his room, opening the door and tugging the newest Robin inside.

It was warmer than Tim had thought it would be—and certainly warmer than the kitchen, the cave, or the gym—but what struck him most was how  _disorganized_ it was. The room wasn’t huge, strictly speaking, and what floor space it did have was taken over in equal parts by clutter, and yoga mats.

Tim made a note of it; rooms often told more about a person than they showed in person, even to people they were fairly close to.

Warm and disorganized.

He supposed it made more sense than he initially thought.

“Home sweet home,” Dick said, pulling Tim out of his thoughts. Somewhere along the way, Tim had been led to the scattered yoga mats, and found himself being prompted to sit down. “So. I’m not sure how well this will work for you. Hell, tonight it’s barely worked for me—but  _usually_ , this does wonders to help me wind down.”

Tim watched him curiously, one creepy-level short of outright staring, as Dick slowly worked himself into a pretzel.

Or, okay, maybe that was a little harsh. But Tim could feel his own calves, biceps, abs, and thighs sympathy-burning just from watching the older teen.

“You see?” Dick asked, and Tim nodded, despite very much not wanting to see. “Here, lemme get out of it, and…”

After a moment’s maneuvering, Dick was back in a regular seating position, and Tim was left wondering if the previous position had somehow been a hallucination. Now that he’d seen Dick in normal form again, he couldn’t help but think humans weren’t supposed to bend like that.

“I don’t think I can bend quite like that yet,” Tim said, before even attempting that level of flexibility. “Maybe, um, something a little…”

“A little less prone to pulling a muscle?” Dick asked. There was a half-amused smile on his face, and Tim felt his cheeks burn. “No worries, Timmy, I’ve got  _just_ the thing.”

‘Just the thing’ was, evidently, a more thorough version of the warm-ups Bruce put him through before and after each patrol and mission. For once, Dick had higher demands than Bruce, and wasn’t quite satisfied with Tim’s usual ‘stretch until it hurts, then stop’ mentality. Instead, he preached a message of ‘stretch until it hurts, then pull back—then do it again, and further, until you’ve truly reached your limit.’

All Tim knew was that he’d never had so much in common with jelly before.

Eventually, though, Dick left him to his own devices, and Tim appreciated it. While he eased up a little, he kept up the pace, appreciating that it gave him something to do to block out the anxiety still threatening to take him over.

Half an hour after he’d started his solo stretches, Tim finally came to a stop.

Had he tried a bit harder, he might have continued—but for that, he’d need a trainer. Because, if he was being honest with himself, he just didn’t have the motivation to continue without external reinforcement. For that, he needed Dick.

But Dick had been suspiciously quiet for the last fifteen minutes.

Tim slowly came out of his last pose, then sat numbly atop the mat after he was finished. For a minute or two, he watched Dick, who was motionless in a stiff, criss-crossed legged pose, with his feet facing sole-up.

And in that time, Tim came to two possible solutions.

Either Dick was so relaxed in this pose that he could imitate a perfect rise-and-fall of a sleeping person’s chest…

Or he’d managed to actually fall asleep. Fully clothed. While doing yoga at three AM.

(Or, make that closer to four, come to think of it.)

Tim quirked a smile, feeling almost fond of the older-brother figure that had been so insistent on helping Tim get to sleep. If Dick was more used to the toxin and therefore less affected, there was really no surprise in that he fell asleep before Tim did. His body was just more ready for it.

But just because Tim wasn’t asleep didn’t mean that Dick had failed.

The anxiety still hummed at the back of his mind, but to his surprise, it was manageable. Manageable enough that he didn’t hesitate to grab the comforter off of Dick’s bed, and pull it onto the floor beside them.

Deciding that he didn’t want to risk waking Dick by untangling him from his uncomfortable-looking position, Tim got comfortable next to him, draping the comforter around Dick’s shoulders and then wrapping it back around so it enveloped both Dick and Tim in its warmth.

That done, he curled up next to him, getting comfortable and pillowing his head in Dick’s lap.

Dick could deal with cramped muscles and accidentally waking Tim later. For now, Tim was too warm, safe, and content to even think about moving. So despite the anxiety, despite the paranoia, despite the worries and insecurities still bouncing around inside his head—

Tim fell asleep within a few minutes of lying down.


End file.
